You ask for a selfie

Mia Khalifa strolled through the bustling mall in Miami, her oversized sunglasses perched on her nose. The air smelled of pretzels and perfume, and she weaved through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone used to being stared at. Lately, though, the stares felt heavier—like they came with expectations she was bone-tired of meeting.

Porn had been her rocket to fame, but the grind? Exhausting. The endless scenes with guys built like linebackers, dicks the size of her forearm, pounding away until she could barely walk straight the next day. Double penetration marathons that left her sore for weeks. "Easy money," they'd said. Yeah, right. Her body ached just thinking about the last shoot—two brutes hung like horses, taking turns like it was an Olympic event.

Then came the offer: a ballbusting video. Some fetish gig where she'd knee, kick, or squeeze guys' nuts until they begged for mercy. No penetration, no gaping, no cleanup. Just her in control, dolled up in heels and lingerie, making grown men whimper. This'll be a vacation, she thought, smirking to herself as she eyed a display of designer bags. Way easier than getting railed by those monsters. I could do it in my sleep—and probably film a podcast after.

Mia Khalifa pushed through the frosted glass doors of Victoria’s Secret, the scent of vanilla and lace wrapping around her like a warm hug. She needed new sets—something fierce, something that screamed I own you—for the upcoming shoot. Ballbusting, she reminded herself with a private grin. No more sore hips, no more bruised cervix. Just me in killer lingerie, making some dude cry for mommy. She trailed her fingers over a crimson bra, imagining the look on the guy’s face when her heel met his...

“Mia?”

She turned. The voice belonged to a tall guy, six-three, maybe six-four, leaning against a display of thongs like he’d been sculpted there. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, the kind of gym-rat build that made yoga pants look like a public service. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes the color of stormy seas. Cute.

He straightened, flashing a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to creep. I’m Jordan. Huge fan. Like… legendary fan.”

Mia arched a brow, lowering her sunglasses just enough to meet his gaze. “Jordan, huh? You always lurk in lingerie stores, or is this my lucky day?”

His laugh was low, nervous but warm. “Scouting for my sister’s birthday. Swear. Then I saw you and, yeah, brain short-circuited.”

She stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint cedar of his cologne. “You know what I do, right? Not exactly Disney princess material.”

“I’ve seen… everything,” he admitted, cheeks flushing. “The double scenes. The—uh—horse guys. You’re unreal.”

If only you knew what’s next, she thought, biting back a smirk. Her fingers brushed a black lace garter. “Tell you what, Jordan. I’ve got a shoot next week. Private. Exclusive. You ever wanted to be in one of my videos?”

His eyes went saucer-wide. “You’re… serious?”

“Dead serious.” She leaned in, voice velvet and venom. “Meet me at the studio. I’ll text you the address. Wear something easy to take off.”

He nodded so fast she feared whiplash. “Holy, yes. God, yes. I’ll be there.”

Mia slipped a business card into his palm—her private number scrawled on the back. “Don’t be late, handsome. Wouldn’t want to start without you.”

As he walked off, practically floating, she turned back to the rack. Poor kid’s dreaming of the usual gangbang, she mused, selecting a pair of steel-boned stilettos. Wait till he finds out the only thing getting double-teamed is his balls.